The Problem With Disguises
by SandwichesYumYum
Summary: A little series. Post Reichenbach. Complete.
1. An Entrance

_Disclaimer: Any chance I could own this? Ever? Er, no._

**The Problem With Disguises**

_**An Entrance**_

He turns up on her doorstep, sometime after he is dead.

She would like to say she isn't surprised, but she has seen John on the television. The falsity of the world's only known consulting detective has turned out to be a global affair. Watching the press hounding the kind doctor has made her angry. Watching this one man wilt under constant pressure is becoming unbearable. And John Watson is a good man. She can see, even through the narrow lens of the media, that he isn't lying.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

So when she, herself, opens her front door, wielding nothing but a pasta sauce covered wooden spoon (out of sheer necessity, she is so very low rent these days), and sees a ghost, everything that was upside down is righted. But that still means turning it upside down. Again.

She is momentarily unable to hide her shock. She merely blinks repeatedly, almost uncharacteristically passively, as he sweeps by her without pause, into her home. She shakes herself, closing the door quickly and turning to follow him.

And there he stands. In her living area. Alive.

She halts, just a few feet away from him.

For minutes, they say nothing, simply observing one another.

He sees very little of her, as ever. She is clearly cooking a Bolognese. Physically, she is healthy, having regained the weight she had lost in Karachi. A cursory glance around the room tells him nothing of any substance, as he would expect. Irene will never be so foolish as to let any revealing personal detail simply lie around openly. But he can tell that she is tired, that she worked a double shift as a waitress yesterday, and that she recently bought a Zippo lighter. Everything else is in darkness for him, but this is more than he usually gets from her, so he considers this a minor victory. He derives a small amount of comfort from the fact that she can, at her own will, deny him details safely.

She sees that he is now rake thin. Food has been scarce. Sleep too, she believes, for a protracted period of time. He is very ill dressed, leading her to suppose that his own necessity has driven him to the kind of lifestyle he will only have glimpsed before in his darkest days. None of this is a surprise. What is, is that she should have spotted him yesterday. She is astounded that she did not. Her brain judders to a forced stop for a mere second, then she looks again and realises what he needs. Why he is here. Although he had bypassed her notice just the day before.

Oh.

She tilts her head, so slightly.

He reciprocates.

They come to a silent accord. They will both speak. Though not too much, not just yet.

"Miss Baker." It has been too long since she heard that voice, even though there is a light undertone of mocking about her chosen surname. Maybe too light, but never mind. She still couldn't quite shake her affinity for risk taking, Mycroft Holmes be damned.

"Mr..?"

"Miller." Her eyebrows shoot upwards in amused disbelief, and he almost smiles. His voice, however, is purposely cool in reply. "I did not choose it."

"I see," she concedes, wryly.

"You are well?" he asks. A meaningless platitude, perhaps, and she will know it, but one that might deflect slightly from the ridiculous Baker/Miller naming coincidence.

She doesn't bite. In any way. "I am alive," she answers, simply.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. "As am I."

"So it would seem."

They fall into an awkward quiet. The air is thick with an odd, unidentifiable tension, one borne from the unsettling knowledge that the balance is changed between them, once again.

And yet, after a few moments more, their eyes meet as they both reach the obvious conclusion. Naturally, they do this at the same time.

The balance has been reset. They are both dead. They are equal.

She breaks the silence.

"Anything I can do." She pauses and looks down at her left hand, where her fingers are still desperately grasping the spoon, craving this new reality, her knuckles white. She waves it, vaguely. When she speaks again, she is only being practical, but cannot help the edge that creeps into her voice as she asks the inevitable question.

"Dinner?"


	2. A Conversation

_Note_. To Sky Writes, Ida Deirdre, SherlockedUntilDeath and star jelly. Thank you for your kind reviews. They were more than welcome. To the many that favourited and alerted this story, I see you and I thank you all. Statistically speaking, your responses qualify as more than awesome. In fact, bestest wishies to all readers the world over. Hello, there! Whether you choose to speak or remain silent, I hope that you enjoy this next ickle bit. More to follow.

_Disclaimer: I own it not. Obviously._

**The Problem With Disguises**

_A Conversation_

They eat in silence. Or he does. He says he is not hungry (as he always has), but after the first forkful, realises he is absolutely ravenous. In mere minutes, and after two servings, the saucepan is bare. If he notices her lack of consumption, he does not mention it. Nor does she. It is of no moment.

She shepherds him into the shower shortly thereafter. Her initial suggestion of it is met with a certain amount of recalcitrant childishness that is not unexpected. He is, after all, brilliant, but not unused to employing such tactics to get his own way.

She counters his sulking by reminding him that he would really not like to wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom, having been drugged and washed by her. His swift slamming of the bathroom door is his agreement.

She gathers a few pieces of comfortable clothing and places them, neatly folded, just outside of said door, then retreats to her one armchair.

It is the sensible place to wait, and this is a very good day to be sensible. They are far past the stage where games are needful if one of them is in dire straits.

She will leave the games for later. For now, she chooses to gather her somewhat scrambled thoughts. After a short while, her equilibrium returns.

She listens as the shower shuts down and he retrieves the clothes and dresses, just out of sight. He stalks in, momentarily refreshed, and nearly throws himself onto her small sofa.

She then has the opportunity to take in the unusual sight of Mr Sherlock Holmes looking rather relaxed in an extremely ill-fitting outfit. She cannot help it if the trousers are at least two inches too short. She had not been expecting him. And if the T-shirt is a wee tad tight, she will not make an issue of it. She notices only in silent appreciation. It is the best way.

As they tend to, they observe one another before deciding to speak.

Her first question is blunt. "How long since you were last followed?" She is not harsh, but they both understand the urgency of the query.

His answer is basic. "Over a week."

A good reply, but she needs it qualified. "You've been on the move ever since."

"Yes, untraceably." His voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt. He is sure.

"I hope so, Sherlock." Soft, slightly chiding.

Suddenly, she is pinned by one of his more imposing looks of certainty. He knows he is right about this. "I would not risk your safety, Irene. You know this."

She nods lightly, almost graciously, in assent. She needed to hear it.

His turn. He flicks his gaze randomly around her current home for a few seconds, before it settles back on her. "What about you? How long before you can freely access your funds and move to somewhere a little more…upmarket again?"

She ignores the slight. "Not long now. I dispersed almost everything I had quite quickly, but I want to take a while pooling it all back together."

He is curious. "Are you sure you aren't overcomplicating things?"

She nods again, allowing him the possibility, but not believing it for a second. "Perhaps. But I'd rather a tortuous route back to financial security than to have the Bat Phone in your brother's office ring because of me. Don't want to shock the poor thing too badly."

This earns her a weary grin. "Spoilsport." She raises an amused eyebrow back. As much as it would be the worst possible outcome for both of them at the moment, they each know that the other would love to be a fly on the wall, should Mycroft receive such a communication.

Another, quite amiable silence follows.

Eventually, she has to ask. "So, why here?"

He shrugs minutely, his tone dry. "It is rather difficult to find a decent conversation when you're dead."

She is equally dry. "I _know_. And?"

He hesitates for just a moment. Then he draws in a deep breath and speaks quickly. He is not used to this. "I need your advice. Given the number of people I've had to shake off recently, it seems that I may have a problem."

She was correct, it would seem, but she will not indulge in smugness. It is not the time. "Ah, a problem with disguises?"

He knows that she is restraining herself. He ignores it. Though he suddenly becomes unnecessarily arrogant, albeit that it somehow comes across as being a bit put out. "Indeed. Though I've always considered myself a master of the craft."

Her nose twitches in amusement at his presumption. And if she chooses to patronise him a little, well, it is deserved. "I think your view is tinged by a touch of bias. But you are extremely good, and with a tweak or two, you may even surpass me in the art."

His voice becomes flat, disbelieving. "Oh, really?"

Her face becomes sphinx-like. "Yes. Somebody once told me that I have the awful habit of colouring my disguises with _sentiment_."

He huffs in awakening amusement. "_No, _Miss_ Baker_."

She winks. "I know. Shocking, isn't it?" A pause. "Of _course_ I'll help you. How can I not? But we'll start tomorrow, I think."

She overtly flicks her eyes briefly up towards his hair, critically taking in the frankly awful, brassy shade of blonde he has somehow contrived to colour it. She leans forward and smiles, slightly impishly. "I could also teach you a lot about dyeing."

There is a momentary quiet. It is, after all, a quite dreadful pun. But then his face breaks into one of his truly infectious grins. And he laughs.

It is so very good to see, so good to hear.

She laughs too.

Then they fall into silence once more.

He starts to blink, a little rapidly, his head drifting off onto his shoulder. Oh, but he is tired. "Time for you to sleep", she says warmly.

He sits bolt upright, gathers himself and glances about him, as if alarmed. "Sherlock. You are safe here," she reassures him.

He nods. "I know." His eyes narrow. "What about you?"

She cannot help herself. "Well, we could share my bed." He blanches. She smiles knowingly. "Perhaps not, though. I'll take the sofa."

He pats the cushions, gingerly. "It feels uncomfortable."

Her turn to shrug. "It is, but never mind."

"Are you sure?" he asks mildly.

She waves his concern away. "I am now, but I'll be a bitch on wheels by tomorrow night, my dear boy."

His eyes seem to grasp hers and, as ever, it is astonishing. In contrast, his voice is light, nearly teasing. "I'll make sure that I locate your riding crop and hide it, then."

She stands, takes a step forward, and brushes her finger over the tip of his nose. "And I wish you luck with that. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Irene."

He pulls himself upright and ambles off to her bedroom, every line, every movement of his body simply screaming out exhaustion. She watches him. He does not close the door before falling onto her bed.

She will never say that she checks on him more than a few times, while he sleeps.

He will never mention that he is sure he sees her doing so, despite his sleep befuddled state.

At least twice.


	3. A Lesson

_Note_: To all reviewers, alerters, favouriteers and lurkerators. I thank you all so very much. There has been a wonderful response to this fic, which has made me very happy. The pace of posting has been slowed a fair bit by various occurrences in RL (bad RL; down, boy!), but be assured this little work will be completed. I hope you all continue to enjoy it.

_Disclaimer_: I've checked my pockets. There is no owning going on here. Promise.

**The Problem With Disguises**

_A Lesson_

He showers again after breakfast. Whilst he considers himself divorced from many of the emotions that afflict others, he realises that this need for further grime removal is psychological rather than actual.

Out of sheer stubbornness, he would not normally allow himself to give in to such frailty, but he was simply running for far too long.

He walks into the living area, towelling his hair, only to stop short as he takes in the sight before him.

She has been busy. Gone is the tired and casually dressed woman he astonished with his unannounced arrival yesterday. There she sits, her back to the window. He momentarily longs for the time when he could make the seating arrangements, but appreciates her point.

She is in charge. She is also perfectly groomed, stylishly dressed (thankfully), poised, elegant…and utterly inscrutable.

He feels his lips curl into the tiniest of smiles. "Miss Adler, I presume?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is warm with what he cannot tell is nostalgia, even as she indicates the end of the sofa that is closest to her. "Do sit." He notices the imperative. She is not asking.

He surprises himself when he complies without comment. Oh, but she is _good_.

For a while, they look at each other. The percentage of time they spend doing this has increased vastly over the course of their acquaintance. It speaks of a now comfortable, but genuine curiosity that neither has ever quite felt before in the company of any other person.

Though his sense of comfort is laced with a mild air of frustration soon enough. As is usual, she cannot be read.

She knows, of course. She is, he will at least admit to himself, his superior when interpreting the emotions of others. A necessary talent in her previous profession, he thinks. He admires her skill, even as it baffles him.

In mere moments, she is on her feet and looming over him quite impressively; another of the tools in her arsenal. He may not entirely understand the attraction of the idea, but he is certain she is very good indeed at 'recreational scolding'. He leans back and looks up into her eyes.

Her voice is firm. "Do you doubt, for a second, that my mind is working incredibly fast, Mr Holmes?"

"No."

"Yet do you see it? Of all people, can _you_ see _me_?"

"No." His answers are, quiet, brief. But she can see that beneath the thin veneer of frustration, he is fascinated by this lack of visual information, his eyes running over her features, her form, grasping for data that simply isn't there, before his gaze locks with hers again.

She is a closed book to him, and to be truthful, he actually enjoys it. Her disposition is a purely intellectual puzzle, and it has been far too long since he has been able to engage in such a pastime. Living in a constant state of hyper-awareness is something that he lives for, yes, but even he needs to cease existing on adrenaline alone. Occasionally. This freedom of thought, the liberation of thinking without boundaries set by the immediate needs for survival, in these days, is a rare treat. No matter that he keeps on coming up empty.

She gives the tiniest of nods. "Good. Now how do I do it?"

"I believe that is what I came here to ask you."

Her smile is almost irritatingly knowing, her tone somewhat smug. "The answer is really quite easy, you dear thing."

He wants information, not games. "And are you going to tell me?"

She leans over him a little more. "Tabula rasa." He raises his eyebrows. She replies to the silent query. "You make yourself a blank slate."

"I am aware of the translation." He does not know it, but he beginning to sound a bit fractious.

She ignores the brief flash of temper, speaking calmly and clearly. "You remove all movement, all tics and behaviours that are personal to you. It gives you a clean canvas onto which you can paint a new personality."

He merely looks at her sceptically.

She supresses the sudden urge to sigh. "I know it seems convoluted, but with some practice, it becomes second nature. Are you willing to give it a try?"

He nods. It works well enough for her, after all. "Good. So do it. Talk to me about Mrs Hudson."

He blinks. Then he begins to talk.

Within a minute, he realises she isn't actually _listening_ to him. People always react when he (purposely) throws in the curve-ball about Mrs Hudson's husband at them. She remains motionless.

What he says is apparently not the point. So he continues to talk, despite not knowing what this task entails.

And then everything changes, though he is not entirely sure why. He is talking about, of all things, said landlady bringing up a plate over-stacked with hot cross buns that were entirely unasked for, when Miss Irene Adler reaches into the back of her waistband and then slams the business end of her riding crop onto the knuckles of his right hand.

Her riding crop.

It is his turn to be astonished, it would seem.

He bites out, "What are you doing?" At which point she lightly taps his left knuckles, too.

He is now quite ready to become a little antagonistic about this situation. "Do stop. _Now_."

Naturally, she ignores _his_ imperative, tipping her head to one side with a shade of nonchalance. The sound of a single syllable, firmly uttered, gives him no ground. "No."

He tries to look impassive. "The learning process is rarely improved by making the student beg, Miss Adler."

Her answer is quick, sharp. "I beg to differ, Mr Holmes."

He sniffs petulantly. "Well you seem to think that one of us has to."

They seem to have reached an impasse.

There is a certain amount of glaring until he decides that this may not ever be resolved unless one of them speaks. He steeples his recently chastised fingers in front of his mouth. And speaks with a small amount of resignation. "You won't teach me any other way, will you?"

A miniscule shrug. "It is a good way of telling you where you are going wrong. Plus, a girl has to have some fun when passing on trade secrets. So, to coin a phrase, it's my way or the highway."

He almost groans. "Will this and many other clichés be here all week?"

"All week?" She pouts a little. "And I thought you were a quick study." A beat. Then she lifts the crop, running it softly over his cheekbones and along his jawline 'til it rests, feather light, under his chin. He nearly shivers and he knows that she knows it.

The moment is heavy and her voice, when, she speaks, is almost a whisper. "I promise you I'll be gentle."

He decides this mood, whatever it is, must be broken. He laces his tone with as much sarcasm as he can muster. "I bet you say that to all the boys."

It would seem he can muster a lot, for she comes back at him in a flash, eyebrows waggling. "And the girls."

"Of course," he nods, mildly. He pauses, gazes at her, measuring. "Alright."

"Are you sure?" Her question is pointed.

"Yes. Let's just do this, shall we?"

She agrees. "Good. So, Mrs Hudson and the hot cross buns. Do tell."

He does.

It turns out that she is gentle with him. In fact, within moments it becomes clear that there was an interesting reason (other than her own amusement) behind the whip implementation.

It is, to put it bluntly, quicker. Instead of having to stop him and explain where he is going wrong each time he makes a mistake, a light tap to the offending area is generally enough to rein him in. Though he feels like an errant puppy, he knows that this unorthodox approach will condense this lesson considerably.

It doesn't mean that he has to like it.

And at around ten minutes in, it becomes clear that she is not over fond of it, either. It seems she is spending more time tapping various parts of his anatomy than she is observing him. She takes a small step backwards and addresses him quite testily. "You are leaking like a sieve. _Do stop_."

He, too, is becoming impatient. "This is pointless, Irene," he says sharply.

Her eyes bore into him, not giving an inch. "It isn't, Sherlock. You can become almost still, unreadable. I've seen it." Her tone becomes wry. "Remember Coventry?"

He narrows his eyes. "How could I forget?"

"Indeed. So you know it can be done." She takes his slightly sullen silence as understanding. She steps back to her previous place in front of him. "Then do it."

He tries again.

And again.

After some time, she grasps the end of the crop that stings with her left hand, apparently hitting a pause button on his education. She smiles at him, approvingly, he believes. "Your blank slate is better. How about we try to cover it, now?"

He is curious. "A character?"

Her smile widens, and becomes far too sweet. "Yes. How about a…vicar? Say, one that has recently been attacked on the street?"

He cannot help but to smile back, albeit somewhat suspiciously. "Do you want to defrock me again, Miss Adler?"

"Do you want me to defrock you again, Mr Holmes?" Her answer is, of course, instant, and full of her own peculiar brand of humour.

He decides it would not be prudent to answer, takes a deep breath, and makes a start on stage two.

At first, she changes his character every five minutes or so. Tap, tap, tap. Moving on when she is satisfied with his performance. But gradually the cycle becomes more rapid. He begins to move with a shocking level of accuracy through a vast number of different personalities.

He is getting it.

She maintains a moderately stern outward appearance, but on the inside she glories in his frankly ridiculously fast progress. She is sorely tempted to laugh with joy at the accuracy of some of his accents.

She does not, naturally. You cannot discipline others without self-discipline.

He is currently from Yorkshire. She watches as he slumps on the end of the sofa, the very picture of an exhausted farmer at the end of a long day. Oh, but he is _good_.

"West country. Long distance lorry driver at the beginning of a shift."

He moves on.

After some hours of this treatment, he seems to reach an acceptable level of competency. She nods curtly, turns and places her riding crop on a side table, relinquishing it for the first time since the lesson began. She seats herself, immediately looking more relaxed. He watches her, transfixed, as subtle, almost imperceptible, changes (ones that, perhaps, he would have not have noticed before today) show that Miss Adler is gone, and that Miss Baker is back in the room. There is a difference between the two, he suddenly understands. The latter persona is still wilfully wicked and intelligent. But she is also, understandably, a little more wary; yet all the while warmer, more friendly. If he did not know better, he would think she was rather enjoying her spell in the cheap seats.

He glances down at his hands. It is apparent that he gesticulates a great deal more than he had ever realised. His knuckles are a little red, sore despite her gentle employment of her chosen teaching 'method'.

But he has made much progress. So he doesn't mind a bit.


	4. A Plan

_Note_: My apologies for the outrageous delay in updating. RL got tough, then proceeded to give me and mine a right proper kicking. Be not alarmed, though…this little work will be completed! To all of my readers, those silent and those talkative, I thank you all. Bestest wishies to every one of you.

_Disclaimer_: There is no ownership going on here. Not even in Linear B. Promise.

**The Problem With Disguises**

_A Plan_

She walks into the living area, carrying the tea tray.

She looks at him quite fondly, while he will not see. He is lying on her sofa, his lower legs flung a little carelessly over the arm at the end, feet awkwardly dangling in mid-air. It does not look comfortable. He seems perfectly happy though, eyes closed, fingers waving in time to music only he can hear.

It is now late in the evening, and they have been extremely busy.

He has laid out, quite plainly, the thrust of his plan. He is awaiting her opinion. She will not pretend that this isn't a compliment. She is not sure that he has ever chosen to share the complexities of his schemes before, with anyone. But these are desperate times.

She gathers herself, and her thoughts, not wanting to disturb him for as long as possible. Not whilst he is seemingly so content. So relaxed. She allows herself the luxury of running her eyes over him, unfettered by the chains of his observation. Her internal points of notice are almost too vulgar for her to admit, even to herself (he is, after all, something and somebody completely distinct from her previous experience of people and certainly of men), so she chooses not to think too consciously as she does so. Her eyes meander over him, slowly, without being stilled by any particular feature, until her gaze settles on a damp, newly dyed lock of hair resting on his forehead.

The hair situation (as she had named it) has indeed been rectified. She is astonished that a man who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of chemistry had apparently never heard of the strand test being used for dyeing purposes. Hence his arriving with the most glaringly blonde locks she'd ever encountered. She had brought this to his attention, for him to counter that the only strand tests he'd ever conducted had been looking for alcohol, narcotics, or poisons.

Fair point.

He, on the other hand, is astonished that she has contrived to change his hair to what she insists she can describe a 'dirty blonde'. Ever the dominatrix.

She puts the tea tray down, and his eyes flash open at the noise. He pulls himself up into a seated position, limbs folding and moving in a way that could easily be construed as slightly clumsy, but that she knows is deft, measured. She loves to watch him move.

He looks at her, curiously. "What do you think?" he asks. He genuinely wants to know, though she can tell from his tone that he doubts no part of his plan.

She inclines her head a little as she picks up the teapot to pour. "I'll be mother." There is a sudden bark of laughter from Sherlock and she looks up, moderately startled.

He is smiling widely. "Mycroft said that to me, at the Palace."

She smiles back at him, as she begins to pour the tea. "I would imagine you made some kind of cutting remark about your childhood in reply?"

His tone is dry. "Something of the sort." By now, he has learned that such an accurate guess from her speaks of her advanced grasp of people and their interactions. He is no longer as surprised by her extraordinary leaps of social awareness as he once was.

He watches her as she adds the necessary milk and sugar to their cups, every action firmly regulated and precise. Too, too precise. "You think my plan flawed?"

The clink of the teaspoon on fine china ceases as she glances towards him, replying wryly. "The student has surpassed the master."

A beat. A gleam of humour. "Does that mean it is my turn with the riding crop?" He cannot help himself, on occasion.

She lets loose a short, but quiet, throaty chuckle. "Don't walk before you can run, my dear," she mutters, passing him his cup of tea.

He watches whilst she seats herself. Her eyes catch his. "I can help you during your short stay in Africa."

He does not try to hide his shock. "Really? You have contacts there?" She merely nods slowly and definitely. He takes that as her word. She would not play with him, not when it comes to this. Certainly not now. He observes her in silence for upwards of a minute. Then he realises. "That is _not _the major problem?"

She lets out a miniscule sigh and then squares her shoulders a touch. When she speaks, her voice is serious and brooks no argument.

"Moran is going to be a problem. _The_ problem."

His disbelief must be writ large on his face, as she continues, her voice more urgent. "No, you cannot trust him, Sherlock. I know him. Well…"

"You know what he likes?" he interrupts, a tad too sharply.

She is mild in her answer. "Hard to say what he really likes, but I can have a better guess than most."

"Do you know what _everybody_ likes?" he bites out. He does not know why this knowledge irritates him so.

She does not rise to him. In fact, quite the opposite. "No. Some people always remain a mystery to me. It's good. Wouldn't want my life to get boring, would we?"

They fall into silence, and she sees, once more, the great detective drop into a short fugue state. His head lists off to one side, his eyes unfocussed. He is processing.

After a few long moments, his attention snaps back to her. "He really is _that_ bad?"

A hard nod in the affirmative. "Don't believe a word he utters. Ever. He is a barely functioning psychopath. I _mean_ it, Sherlock. He is almost as unpredictable as his former master."

His eyes twitch, but then his curiosity returns in full force. "And you had…_dealings_ with him?"

It is a curiosity she appreciates, but one that they both know she will not satisfy. "In a manner of speaking, yes. It appears that I find barely functional psychopaths slightly easier to control than highly functional sociopaths." She winks at him in jest. "Only just, though."

"Thanks for the compliment." He looks genuinely bemused. "If it is one."

Warm laughter is her response. "Oh, it is, Mr Miller. I have always adored a challenge."

"I am not surprised," he says, quite softly. For a few minutes the quiet reigns once more, and they sit there, sipping at their tea companionably.

After a while, his cup is almost empty and he places it onto his saucer with a remarkably audible clink. He breaks the verbal silence.

"So. Africa."

She smiles once more. "Yes. Africa."

It is risky. They know that Mycroft will discover her at some stage. They make a sound backup plan for her further disappearance. Another place. Yet another identity. One where the her name will be, in no way at all, grain related.

What they don't yet know is that they will both be surprised when his brother walks up to their table at a small restaurant in Khartoum. Though, perhaps, not as surprised as Mycroft will be. He will have heard that his brother has been travelling with a woman, off and on; they will, however, never have been seen together in any camera footage. He, therefore, will never have guessed that said female was The Woman.

After all, she is very much dead.

But that is not the story of now. Now, they continue to polish the plan, talking even later into the evening.


	5. An Exit

_Author's Note_: And finally, we reach the end of this little fic! To all of those that have taken the time to review, alert, favourite or simply read it, I thank you. I thank you all. Your kindness and (certainly!) your patience have helped me through a very trying period in my life. I wish you all the very best.

_Disclaimer_: This arena of fabulousness belongs to me in no way whatsoever.

**The Problem With Disguises**

_An Exit_

They eat, but they do not have dinner. They observe, they laugh, they argue, they discuss, but sentiment is never approached.

More progress is made.

Knowledge is taken and given in equal measure.

He listens. Yes, for the first time, he truly listens to her as she describes her methods of reading nuance, of using a combination of body language, vocal tone and general air to gauge the import of a situation.

It is only natural that she watches him as she speaks, and she knows that he does not fully grasp all of her ideas. This doesn't matter. He is quite brilliant enough to use his own inbuilt assets to compensate for any flaws in his understanding.

He is made better.

She would not have guessed that he could be so receptive to her own theories on the base nature of people, and of using this to determine their feelings.

Yet he is.

He, on the other hand, has been utterly, somewhat bluntly, forthright in his opinion on her skills of observation. But then he actually takes the time to try and explain how he does so himself.

She listens without comment.

He describes, at first with some difficulty, but then more easily, just how much the devil can be found in the details. How clearing one's mind of prejudice, and seeing a place or situation as it actually is, can speak so clearly of what has happened, of what has been.

He watches her as he talks, and believes she is beginning to grasp the importance of dissociation from emotion in his method.

He knows that she will, probably never, fully be able to utilise the procedures he is struggling to convey. It is simply not within her sphere of expertise.

She listens, avidly. And it is not as if she is without a skillset of her own.

She is being sharpened. And they both know it.

He could not have guessed that she would allow herself to accept his idea of logic, of evidence, being so very important.

Yet she does.

They have their last meal, for now, at least.

He sees her eating much less than him. Again. They do not speak of it. They both know what is to come. Of the trials the next few days are likely to throw into his path. This matter is deemed unmentionable by silent agreement.

But they do talk.

The cheap seats appear to involve a great deal of pasta these days. It would be unsporting of him not to mention it.

He holds up a forkful of fusilli, a little nonchalantly. "Student food, Irene?"

She narrows her eyes at him, quite dangerously, as he flings said forkful into his mouth with teasing aplomb. She is very hungry indeed, but she knows, better than most, that there can be worse pains than hunger.

Her tone is, therefore, quite mild. "And, Sherlock, your problem is?"

He grins. "I hear carbs are terrible for women of a certain age." Somebody is clearly up for a verbal tussle. That's okay. She is, too.

She sighs, wistfully. "They might be if I were actually eating them."

An eyebrow is raised, a tad sarcastically. "I thought you liked house guests?"

An airy wave her right hand follows. "I like them when they pay me for my trouble."

He tries and, if she must be critical, fails, to plaster his face with a look of total innocence. "And I'm trouble?"

She employs her wickedest and most knowing smile. She nearly purrs as she speaks. "My dear Mr Holmes, you are nothing but."

He grins quite wildly as she looks smugly victorious, at least briefly.

But then there is quiet. He eats. She ignores that fact that she isn't.

The mood changes, yet again.

When he finally clears his plate and places it on the small table, the clank of his cutlery is quite jarring for them both.

It signals an ending, of sorts.

It is time for him to leave. And they both comprehend it.

He goes into the bathroom, once more. No words are spoken.

He returns.

She watches as he gathers his scant belongings. Pockets are filled, but there is little else for him to carry away. She knows that, for now, he will accept no further material assistance from her. And he knows that she knows it.

This is done in a heavy silence.

He flings his jacket on, and goes to turn towards the door. Yet he pauses, as he draws up to her shoulder. They do not look at one another. By unspoken mutual consent, this is not a time for observation.

His voice is soft. "Thank you, Irene."

She barely shrugs, but it is enough for him to note it, in his peripheral vision. He cannot help this. She is aware of this way of his. "No need, Sherlock. If anything, I should be thanking you."

He looks fully away from her, though it is only his head that moves. "No. You shouldn't. I think we are finally square."

She looks at the curtain as it moves gently in the light breeze from the window. "You may be right, at that." A beat. "Khartoum?"

He nods.

There is stillness for a moment. Nothing more is said. Then he nods once more, sharply, decisively. Without pause, he strides towards the front door, opening it. And moves on, swiftly.

The door slams, and she flinches at the finality of the sound.

Momentarily, she is overwhelmingly bereft.

She is alone.

Again.

But then something happens that changes all of that.

It would seem she is not the only one who will personalise a ringtone. Mere seconds after the front door closes, her phone suddenly barks at her, in an unmistakable voice.

"_Bored_!"

It is glorious. It is the perfect description of what he is likely to be, when he chooses to message her.

It is also risky, yes, but what is life without risk?

Within a second, she is doubled over, grasping her phone, nearly gasping at the hilarity of it.

Oh, but he is _good_.

He hears her laughter, and it lifts the weight of walking away. He had not thought it would be difficult, yet his first few paces were leaden, almost unwilling. But he knows he will see her again in a few weeks, should the plan hold, which he has no reason to doubt. His steps lighten.

He knows so many who are less than he. One who is much more. But only one that can challenge him now. One mind. One equal. One confidante. The Dominatrix. The Woman.

She pulls herself together and moves over to the window. She watches him disappear effortlessly into a crowd. And she sees that his time here was not wasted. She stares at the place where he seemed to vanish, for a long time after he is simply gone.

She knows men. Intimately. Though she prefers the company of women. He is something different. The beautiful mind. Untouched. Untouchable. The Virgin. The Man.

They will meet again. Soon. And they are both content in this knowledge.


End file.
